The tutor at evening class said I needed to practise at home if I wanted to improve my speed.
We did not own a typewriter. Most families I knew did not. Mum treated this as a problem that could be solved by asking enough people.
A woman from the school kitchen knew somebody whose daughter had left office work and was selling a portable machine. Mum arranged for us to see it.
Portable was an optimistic description. It fitted into a case and could be carried, though not far without changing hands.
The typewriter was several years old. The ribbon still produced black letters, the case fastened and every key worked if pressed firmly enough. The seller typed a sentence to prove it. I noticed she avoided the number row.
I had saved money from my wages. Mum asked the price, offered less and waited. I stood beside her trying not to look as though I wanted it.
We took it home that afternoon.
Dad set it on the dining table and checked the feet. Mum put an old cloth underneath because the table had survived two children and she was not losing it to office equipment.
My first practice sheet began well. Halfway through, the ribbon stopped moving. Dad opened the top, looked at the spools and moved one by hand.
‘Try it now.’
It worked.
‘What was wrong?’
‘It had stopped.’
Dad did not always waste an explanation on the part I already knew.
I practised letters, envelopes and timed passages. The carriage return made enough noise for Mum to hear from the kitchen. She could tell when I had made a mistake because the typing stopped and I said something under my breath.
By the time I took RSA Stage I Typing, the machine had become part of the weekly routine. I used it later for application letters, household lists and occasional paid typing for a local surveyor.
I kept it long after we bought a computer. By then I carried it only when there was no alternative.